


Snow Like Stars, Frozen

by hapax (hapaxnym)



Series: BT Tower Telephone Group C [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, So So Softe, but mostly soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:09:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26646550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley go for a snowy walk in the park.  There are Feelings, but not (yet) Words.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: BT Tower Telephone Group C [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937824
Comments: 13
Kudos: 42





	Snow Like Stars, Frozen

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [s'cold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26651734) by [fairybog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairybog/pseuds/fairybog). 



> _the snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches._  
>  \-- e e cummings

“Nah,” Crowley said. “No such thing. I mean, I’d know.”

Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back. He would rather have reached out and pulled his … _the_ demon to his side, but despite the generally more free-and-easy nature of their friendship since the Apocaflop, they weren’t quite _that_ free, and, well, _easy_.

“I assure you, my dear boy, there were several accounts when I was in the States last century between the Wars. The colonials—”

“Americans.”

“—very well, _Americans_ include them among those they label, in their quaint frontier manner, ‘ _fearsome critters_ ’. _Serpentius niveus_. Stark white, quite invisible in snowbanks, until they leap out to bite their prey, with all the speed of a striking Hamadryad...”

Crowley, who was known to go fast himself, rolled his eyes.

“…their venom literally _freezing_ the blood of their victims within their veins!” the angel concluded, wiggling with macabre delight.

“Angel,” the demon sighed, “you _know_ that’s not possible.”

“We-e-e-ell,” the other conceded, “it doesn’t sound very likely. But dear Anathema swore most earnestly that they are still known to haunt the slopes dedicated to winter sports. Those who indulge in downhill skiing, snowboarding, and the like, blame the beasts for their worst mishaps. Every spectacular ‘ _wipe-over_ ’.”

“ _Wipe-out_ , angel, and you can _not_ convince me you aren’t doing that on purpose. Or that you don’t already know Book Girl was having you on.”

Aziraphale hummed. It was true that he was deliberately being, well, _sillier_ than usual, but if it had the desired effect, he didn’t mind one bit. Poor Crowley had been dreadfully gloomy of late. The angel didn’t know whether there was something preying on his mind, or if it were merely a spot of torpor brought on by winter; either way, he was determined to elevate his dearest friend’s mood.

Hence their current excursion. They had enjoyed an excellent dinner at a little establishment with an astonishing winelist, and rather than cap off the evening at the bookshop as usual, the angel had suggested a stroll through St. James. Snow in London was a rare blessing, after all, and transformed the park into something pure, clean, and strangely hushed, reminiscent of the world freshly created, before humans were invented and everything became so _complicated_.

The only drawback was that Crowley had allowed his sense of style to supersede practicality, sporting only a thin jacket against the cold. Aziraphale knew the demon would rather fall into brumation than permit himself to be bundled up, but that didn’t stop him from offering to miracle more suitable outerwear.

“S’ _fine_ , angel. What am I going to do, fall into a snowbank and make snow angels?”

Aziraphale beamed. “That would be more _my_ style than yours, dearest.”

One corner of Crowley’s mouth quirked. “S’pose I could try for snow demons. Or snow snakes.”

Which naturally led to the angel’s insistence that ‘ _snow snakes_ ’ indeed existed, a patent absurdity he was certain would amuse his depressed darling.

If only ‘ _darling_ ’ were an endearment he dared employ.

~*O*~

This was nice.

Demons weren’t supposed to like _nice_. But there wasn’t any other adjective to slap onto this, walking through snow, bickering with an angel, hands jammed into pockets, feet scuffling tiny white flurries.

Okay, _bloody_ _freezing_ would also work, but would involve acknowledging that his exceedingly stylish jacket was useless (microfibers might be all very well for _humans_ , but accomplished bollocks for cold-blooded entities) after he had miracled it for an assignment at the South Pole, intent on fashion-shaming the penguins—flash bastards, basically ducks in tuxes—but he looked good, that was the important thing.

The point was that Crowley wanted more than _nice_. For a while, he had believed that they were getting somewhere. That after ‘ _Our Side_ ’ and ‘ _To the World_ ’, they were _finally_ both reading the same script. That Aziraphale felt for Crowley something like he did for his angel (not _identical_ , of course, that wasn’t _possible_ , there was no conceivable chance that the best, truest, most perfect angel in (or out of) Heaven could care for a _foul fiend_ that way, but Aziraphale was very good at loving Things-In-General, and it was within the bounds of hope that he might someday try loving Crowley-In-Specific), but …

… they just _didn’t_.

He shouldn’t complain. After all, they met up frequently to eat, and even more frequently to drink, and Crowley was now permitted to bring treats and stare hungrily and generally just _be_ with his angel as much as he liked, and it was all _spiffing_. More than he would have dreamt of even a year ago.

It wasn’t enough.

Crowley _wanted_. He wanted to _say_ Things.

Which was definitely ironic. He’d never been one for words, that was _Aziraphale_ , and it had been opening his stupid mouth and letting words fall out which had started all his troubles an eternity ago.

Still, here he was, positively aching to Word, and he … couldn’t. Daren’t. He wasn’t brave, not like his angel. Instead, Crowley was _reckless_ ; yet every time he had hinted at Words, Aziraphale had flashed _that_ expression, appalled and heartbroken. So the demon was set on squashing down every word, staying content with what they had.

Which was _nice_.

Really.

They continued their leisurely stroll, Aziraphale now nattering about snow snakes crossing from China via the Bering Strait. Crowley was only half-listening, trying not to shiver. It was dark now, the moon in its last quarter, the park deserted.

Snow began to fall.

Crowley stood and stared, entranced.

The snowflakes swirled around them, reflecting warm glints from the city lights and silver from the moon above.

It was, just a _very_ little, like … Before. Dancing through the primeval Void to celestial melodies of wonder, beauty, joy; painting with starstuff spinning from his fingers.

Except _now_ , Aziraphale stood beside him. His angel was Music and Wonder and Beauty and Joy and Light, all in himself; and Crowley thought that this, _this_ might be the most sublime moment of his immortal existence.

He could stop time. Just snap his fingers, capture everything—demon, angel, park, snow, light, _love_ —an eternal tableau, like those shiny glass balls the humans liked, filled with figurines and bits of glitter to emulate a snowstorm. _Snowglobes_ , that’s what they were called.

Stay in this snowglobe forever.

The demon ceased moving. Skin chilled. Pupils narrowed to slits. Superfluous heart slowed to an intermittent _thump_. Unnecessary breath stilled to a whisper.

He could almost feel the sphere solidify.

But the thing about snowglobes was, the _thing_ was: snowglobes were intended for _shaking_. Turning upside-down, even.

“Oh, my darling,” an angel murmured. “You’re practically frozen. You should have told me.”

There was an ethereal _whoosh_. Crowley felt a warm fluffy softness cradle him. Better, the heartbeat so very near, as strong arms wrapped about him and wings pressed him into a sturdy chest. Best of all, the scent of sunlight and ink and vanilla and hot tea and _angel_ , mingled with every (suddenly vitally necessary) breath.

“Should’ve tol’ you,” he agreed, words muffled. “Di’n’t. Cou’n’t. But _will_. Promisss. I _will._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first event! I am so grateful to the wonderful mods at the DIWS Discord server, and of course to the sweet work by @fairybog that inspired mine

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Amber](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26651059) by [Janara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janara/pseuds/Janara)




End file.
